Read Once Upon a Rose Page 22

Deanie's face lit with understanding. "Oh, I

  do remember! There was a made-for-Tv movie

  all about it. She was a Baltimore divorcee,

  and Edward abdicated the crown for her. It was

  wonderful! I think Jane Seymour played her

  in the movie."

  "Jane Seymour?"

  "Not the queen. This Jane was in James

  Bond films, then went on to become Dr.

  Quinn on television."

  Kit shook his head and raked a hand through his

  hair before continuing. "Anyway, our little Katherine

  has a pushy uncle and an even more pushy flock

  of Catholic supporters. They're still smarting from

  Cromwell's dissolution of the monasteries. If

  Katherine becomes queen, as indeed she shall,

  Cromwell will be left alone, bearing the wrath of

  Henry and Norfolk and every Catholic in the land."

  "Doesn't Cromwell have any

  supporters?"

  Kit made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

  "He has never been known for his personal

  magnetism. Cromwell's biggest talent has

  been to make himself indispensable to the king, never

  trusting anyone else enough to share the power. At this

  point he's already alienated all his potential

  defenders. He's always acted alone and never

  bothered to build a political force behind him. It

  worked for a while, but ..."

  Kit stopped talking as Norfolk approached

  and acknowledged them with a curt nod. Now that the king

  had been taking an active interest in his niece,

  he seemed to expand within his office, gaining momentum

  with every leering twinkle the king bestowed upon Katherine.

  Just as they were about to continue their discussion in the

  corridor, the evening ended abruptly with Deanie

  and the other ladies-in-waiting escorting Queen

  Anne to her bedchamber. There wasn't time for her

  to mention the run-in with Surrey.

  She spent the next morning in a frustrating

  attempt to learn needlepoint from the

  wasp-tongued Mother Lowe. Meanwhile, Kit

  passed the hours with Suffolk and the other gentlemen,

  planning a tournament to celebrate the coming of

  summer. He found her in her chamber, back

  turned toward the door, dabbing her fingertips with a

  cloth. The halls were unusually silent. Most

  of the members of the court were admiring the king's new

  bowling alley below.

  "It's raining," Kit announced from the

  doorway. His arm was raised over his head,

  gripping the archway with casual strength as he

  leaned into her room. The pain in his shoulder was still

  intense, but he was determined to defy it, refusing

  to admit to any limitations. "We have to wait

  until the weather clears before we can try the maze

  again."

  "Good," Deanie said, her back turned toward

  Kit.

  "Good?"

  "That gives us more time to work with Queen Anne.

  After those papers Cromwell showed me, I hope

  we have weeks of rain. It's going to take a lot

  of time to ensure her safety, Kit."

  "I thought you were pleased with how well the

  doughnuts worked," he said to her back.

  "Six dozen doughnuts do not a marriage

  make."

  Kit frowned. "What the hell is that

  supposed to mean?"

  "It just means we need more time--lots of time

  to help the king appreciate his queen."

  "We don't have a lot of time, love." He

  lowered his voice. "The longer we remain here, the

  more likely we are to be brought up on charges of

  witchcraft or treason."

  "You've managed to avoid that problem nicely

  for more than a decade," she reasoned without facing

  him.

  "That was before you arrived. On my own, I was

  fine. You're the wild card--everything's changed.

  What on earth are you doing?"

  She paused and looked straight ahead. "Is

  it good or bad that everything's changed?"

  "Mostly good." There was a smile in his

  voice. "Mostly wonderful; just those treason or

  witchcraft threats to make us skiddish."

  "I wonder what would be worse," she mused.

  "I mean, between treason or witchcraft."

  With a light chuckle he shifted his weight.

  "Given a choice, I believe I'd

  opt for witchcraft. You might get lucky and have

  your fire put out by rain. There's not much hope with

  being hanged, drawn, and quartered."

  "All three?" She stiffened. "Isn't that

  overkill?"

  "That's the general idea. Why, they make

  sure the poor sod is still awake to watch himself

  get disemboweled. Say, Deanie, what are you

  doing?"

  Deanie turned and held up her left hand.

  Even from across the room he could see the tiny

  rivulets of blood.

  "Good God, what happened?" He reached her

  side in a few long strides.

  "I tried my hand at needlepoint." She

  sighed. "It looks so easy, Kit. The

  ladies just hanging around, chatting up a storm and

  sewing. But those needles are sharp, and Mother Lowe

  made me finish the sample."

  As he examined her wounded fingertips, she

  reached for her small sample of needlework. With

  obvious disgust, she held it before his eyes.

  "It's okay. You can laugh if you want," she

  muttered.

  Kit transferred his attention to the little square

  of cloth. "Oh. Well. I say, Deanie,

  it's really very good. Jolly good indeed." He

  squinted, leaning closer, then averted his eyes,

  complete befuddlement apparent on his strong

  features.

  "Do you know what it is?" A smile tugged at

  the corners of her mouth.

  "What? Well of course I do. I'm not a

  complete idiot. Hmm, let me see." He

  focused again on her fingertips. "A little iodine

  would be welcome now."

  "What is it?"

  "Iodine? Why, it's an orange-colored

  medicine to kill germs."

  "I know what iodine is, Kit. I'm asking

  if you know what my needlepoint is supposed

  to be."

  "Oh, that."

  She nodded solemnly.

  "Well, let's just take another look, shall

  we?" His voice was artificially cheerful. "My,

  what colors! Really, it's quite astounding,

  Deanie. Look at your spectacular use of

  red."

  "Red? I didn't use any red."

  Looking closer at the cloth she bit the inside

  of her cheek to stop from giggling. "That's blood,"

  she said finally. "Mother Lowe wouldn't let me use

  a thimble."

  "Oh. I see. Well it works very well,

  doesn't it?"

  "Never mind the colors, Kit. Tell me

  what it is."

  "Come now, Deanie. Of course I know what

  it is."

  "Then tell me," she insisted.

  The dimples in his cheeks deepened in

  concentration. At once his expression brightened.

  "Wh
y of course! It's a bug!"

  She shook her head.

  "A bird? Those are wings, are they not?"

  Raising her eyebrows, she crossed her arms

  and tapped an impatient foot.

  "You are not going to help me out, are you?"

  Again she shook her head, this time unable to keep

  the mischievous grin from her face.

  "Very well. It seems to be some creature from

  mythology, perhaps a phoenix rising from its

  ashes. No? Let me see. Hallo! Is that

  a man inside the neck of the creature?"

  She nodded eagerly.

  "Charades it is, then." Clearing his throat,

  he looked at Deanie, the expectant, eager

  smile on her face. And he realized what she

  had done.

  "Deanie." His voice was suddenly rough as he

  turned the sample on its side. For a long

  moment he said nothing, just examined her clumsy

  attempt at needlepoint, the wild shape with a

  lopsided hump on the top. His unwavering gaze

  slid to her face. "It's an aeroplane."

  "Bingo."

  He swallowed hard before he returned to the

  needlework, wondering why he felt a sudden ache

  in his throat. She had made it for him, for him

  alone. He tried to keep his tone easy, tried

  not to show how touched he was by the gesture. "What

  kind of plane is it?" His words sounded harsh and

  accusing, but Deanie didn't seem to mind.

  "Oh, I don't know." She shrugged. "I

  sort of made it up. I mean, on the road

  I've seen tons of old war movies. It's

  hard to get right to sleep after a concert. So I just

  closed my eyes and tried to remember what the

  planes looked like in this old film with

  Dana Andrews. I kept on waiting for a

  woman to appear the first time I saw it, since I

  thought "Dana" had to be a lady." Realizing

  she was chattering to cover his silence, she peered down

  at the cloth, suddenly embarrassed. "Do you like

  it?"

  When she looked into his eyes, she caught a

  strange, unsettling flash before he spoke.

  "Yes," he said at last, pulling her slowly

  toward him with one arm, still examining the work in the other

  hand. "May I keep it?"

  "Sure. I did it for you."

  Unlacing the front tie of his black doublet,

  he slipped the piece within his full white shirt.

  The peculiar expression was still on his face.

  "Deanie, was that one of our planes, or an

  enemy aircraft?"

  Confused, she looked up at him as he led her

  through the door. "One of ours. Why?"

  "Just wondering," he murmured, taking her hand.

  He paused, then drew her needle-pricked

  fingertips to his lips and pressed them with a warm

  kiss. "Now, are you positive we won the

  war?"

  "Very funny," she whispered. But at that moment,

  the last thing either of them had on their minds was the war.

  Queen Anne summoned Mistress Deanie

  to her chamber an hour before the evening meal was to be

  served. The rain still poured against the windows, making

  the palace seem more damp and chilly than

  usual.

  "Mistress Deanie." The queen smiled as

  soon as Deanie curtsied. "Those doo-nuts

  last evening, I must say thank you for to bring them.

  The king, he sure thought they were okay."

  Deanie raised her eyes and grinned. "He

  sure wolfed them down, didn't he, Your

  Majesty."

  "I do believe he eat four or five in one

  wolf." The queen made a motion for Deanie

  to rise and gestured to a chair. "Come, sit. I

  need to chew off your ear."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I need to talk, to chew off your ear."

  Ignoring the bewildered frown on Deanie's

  face, the queen swept past her and returned with

  an official-looking parchment. For an awful

  moment Deanie thought Cromwell had served her

  with the orders of execution. She quickly

  dismissed the thought with a sigh of relief. The queen

  was preoccupied with something, but she did not seem

  to be in mortal fear.

  "Read this, may it please you," the queen said,

  handing Deanie the paper.

  It was written in a beautiful hand, one more

  legible than most of the samples she had seen

  since arriving in 1540. Deanie whistled through her

  teeth. "Very nice, Your Majesty. Whoever did

  this could work calligraphy at any gift shop or

  make a fortune writing names on diplomas."

  The queen pointed with one flat-nailed finger.

  "Read it, please."

  Deanie shrugged her shoulders once and began

  to read.

  "Permit me to show, by this billet, the zeal with which

  I devote my respect to you as a queen, and my

  entire obedience to you as my mother. I am too young

  and feeble to have power to do more than felicitate you with

  all my heart in this commencement of your marriage.

  I hope that Your Majesty will have as much goodwill

  for me as I have zeal for your service."

  Perplexed, she looked up at the queen.

  "Wait a minute: I didn't know you had any

  kids," she said. "Whoever wrote this calls you his

  or her mother."

  Queen Anne nodded. "'Tis my

  stepdaughter, the child of my husband, the king."

  "Oh." Deanie frowned over the paper. "How

  old is she?"

  "Six."

  "What? You mean a kid of six wrote this

  herself?"

  The queen gave a half smile. "She

  seems to be one smart cookie, no?"

  Deanie nodded in agreement, her eyes again

  reading the princess' words. "Where is she?" she

  asked without looking up. "I haven't seen her

  at court. I haven't even seen the little prince.

  He's guarded like some sort of prisoner."

  "He's the king's heir, next in line to the

  throne. The king must be careful with his only son."

  "The princess is also the king's heir, Your

  Majesty. Why isn't she at court?"

  The queen looked satisfied by her response.

  "That is what I am riled up about, mistress.

  Doesn't it seem to you that the little

  Princess Elizabeth should be here?"

  The parchment rested in Deanie's lap. "Of

  course. Where is she?"

  "Banished to another palace. The king seems

  to hate her and will not allow her to reside in his

  presence."

  "Why on earth does he hate her? She's just

  a kid," Deanie mumbled. The image of an

  eager, bright six-year-old, unwanted by her father,

  flamed her own memories of childhood. "I'm

  a little hazy on all this, but who's her mother?"

  The queen seemed taken aback. "Why, her

  mother was Anne Boleyn, executed over three

  years ago by the king."

  "Holy cow! The kid was three years old when

  it happened."

  With a wary glance toward the door, the queen

  crept over, peering down the outside hall before

/>   she closed it. She spoke in a hushed tone.

  "I showed the king this letter, hoping he would feel pity

  for his little kid. I even had my cook make some

  more doo-nuts before I spoke."

  "So what happened?" Deanie's head was next

  to the queen's. Up close she was momentarily

  distracted by both her large pores and the

  now-familiar scent, thick and mucky but not as

  unpleasent as it used to seem.

  "He became angry, Mistress Deanie.

  He swore some curses, I know not the meaning of

  some of the phrases. He told me to go hence,

  away from him, and that the mother of Princess

  Elizabeth was but a whore."

  Deanie involuntarily flinched, imagining the

  king's rage. "So he won't allow her to join the

  rest of her family at court," she said

  quietly.

  "No. He has further instructed me to give

  this letter to Cromwell, who is then to answer nay."

  "Great. Cromwell would make any

  six-year-old girl one swell pen pal."

  The queen seem surprised. "Think you that?"

  "No, Your Majesty," Deanie said at

  last. "I think this is terrible." Glancing back

  at the paper, she noticed a tiny figure

  drawn in the corner. It was a little girl's

  sketch of a flower, so small it was easy to miss,

  a tentative plea for friendship from a lonely child.

  "Has Cromwell seen this yet?" Deanie

  could imagine his glee, striking out at the innocent

  child of his tormentor.

  "No. Mistress Deanie, I have no

  influence with the king. You do. Can you think of anything

  to help this poor little princess?"

  Deanie clenched her hand over the letter, wondering

  if the kind queen, begging help for a child she had

  never met, knew of the danger she herself faced.

  There was something in the queen's dark eyes that made

  Deanie believe she was very much aware of the hazards

  of the court.

  "Your Majesty, could you give me a little time

  to think?" She rubbed a hand over her forehead,

  trying to imagine what ideas Kit might have.

  "But of course." The queen smiled and rose

  to her feet, gently lifting the letter from Deanie's

  lap. "Perhaps at the evening meal we may speak

  again."

  Wearily, she nodded. As she left the

  queen's chamber, she wondered where she might find

  Kit. He would most certainly be able to come up

  with a brilliant plan.

  "You promised her what?" Kit demanded,

  breathing hard after a fencing match. The tip of his

  foil rested on the ground next to her foot, and

  she backed away slightly. With a distracted hand

  he rubbed his sore shoulder.

  "I just told her we would try to help,"

  Deanie repeated. The sound of clashing metal

  echoed in the fencing chamber. In the far corner was

  Surrey, glaring at her from under a cumbersome

  screened helmet. His father insisted he wear the

  protection, much to his embarrassment. None of the

  accomplished swordsmen had requested a match with

  him, further fueling his fury.

  "If the rains cease on the morrow, we must

  try to leave," he said in a soothing tone.

  "No, Kit. I really want to stay here and

  help, now more than ever."

  "Don't you understand? We have no choice." He

  took a deep breath and looked about the room. The

  ladies had just been admitted: a prime

  opportunity for the young men of the court to show off their

  athletic skills. The men were without their doublets,

  much to the titillated delight of the women.

  Even in her concern for the princess, Deanie

  couldn't help but notice how superior Kit was

  to the rest of the gentlemen. Some were attractive, a

  few had rather nice physiques. But the duke of

  Hamilton, his handsome face flushed from

  exercise, the dark hair curled at the

  nape of his neck, was extraordinary.

  "Please, Kit. You should see the letter.

  Honestly, it broke my heart."

  "Your concern for others is admirable, love."

  He wiped a droplet of perspiration from his

  eyes. "Save some of that concern for us. Even as

  we stand here and talk, we are placing ourselves in

  peril. We will try to leave tomorrow, and then all of

  these intrigues will hopefully be distant

  history."

  He turned and walked to a corner of the chamber,

  nodding to a cluster of ladies as he placed his

  foil in the rack on the wall. Arms folded,

  she followed him, trying to control her anger,

  ducking beneath an earl's raised foil as she

  crossed the floor.

  "I don't care if you refuse to help me,"

  she hissed into his ear. Startled, he turned,

  stunned by the unfamiliar vehemence in her voice.

  "You have no idea what it's like to know your own father

  doesn't give a hoot what happens to you, if

  you're sick or well or smart or stupid. You

  were a rich kid, with a stable family."

  "My father was killed in the war when I was a child."

  "I know, and that's awful, it really is. But at

  least he didn't leave on purpose, letting you

  spend the rest of your life wondering what you did

  wrong, what you could have possibly done to make him

  leave." The tears made her vision blurry, but

  she continued. "And at least you and I had our